


The Coming of the Hybrid

by geekns



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alien Biology, Alien Planet, Alien Sex, Alien/Prometheus inspired, Belly Kink, Childhood Friends, Dalek babies, Drugged Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Erotica, F/M, Fatality Index, Flashbacks, Forced Pregnancy, Friends to Enemies, Lactation Kink, Masturbation, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Porn With Plot, Post-Episode: s09e01 The Magician's Apprentice, Post-Episode: s09e02 The Witch's Familiar, Post-Episode: s10e06 Extremis, Pregnancy Kink, Public Labor, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacle Rape, The Vault (Doctor Who), Time Lord/Dalek Hybrids, Tribble inspired too, birth kink, orgasmic birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2020-12-23 20:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21086993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekns/pseuds/geekns
Summary: Davros knew of the coming of the Hybrid. How far was he willing to go in order to ensure its creation?





	1. Prodromal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [D_f_m22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_f_m22/gifts).

> This is going to be something different for me. Dark. Blatantly sexual. A very predictable ending no doubt. I've read stuff like this (not genre specific, but general erotica), I never in a million years thought I would be writing it.

The Doctor had been surprised by how healthy and unchanged Missy had looked when she stepped out of prison and back into his life… not that he was a good judge of such things. Her skin, though pale from lack of sunlight, almost seemed to be...glowing. She had makeup on (he actually noticed), every hair in place (so far as he could tell), and her dress, though rumpled and worn, fit rather less loosely than he was expecting. In fact, the dress' fit was almost...snug.

But of course even his memory was not actually perfect and he didn’t normally pay attention to such things. In fact, he only thought to actually examine her appearance because he was anticipating that she would be malnourished and in need of medical care after an extended stay on Skaro and in the prisons of the Fatality Index. So it was much to his surprise that Missy looked healthy. Remarkably so.

It also surprised him that, as soon as she awoke post “execution,” she promptly begged for food before even considering bathing, a medical examination, or any sort of catching up on her more recent experiences, and promptly ate enough to feed three healthy Time Lords. Even now, two months later, Missy tended to eat at least twice as much as he did at every meal they shared...and this body of his dearly loved to eat. Fortunately all of the chips, sushi, and burgers didn’t seem to impact his figure in a negative way. 

Missy, as it turned out, was not so lucky. He was almost positive that she was looking even thicker around the waist than she had at her execution (though this was hard to judge when she continued to wear her corset). She was definitely looking greener than usual for a Time Lord (or Lady). She also spent an inordinate amount of time excusing herself to the “little girl’s room” whenever he came to visit. She seemed more and more weary with each passing day, unusually lackadaisical and lethargic compared to her usually playful and energetic self, and Nardole reported that she was napping more and more during his shifts.

Perhaps he should have forced the issue and made her submit to a medical scan after all. It had seemed like a reasonable idea considering how long she had been imprisoned (though he wasn’t precisely sure on that point as she was still evasive about details about her experiences). The real issue had been her reaction to his suggestion. Missy had promptly had a panic attack. She was barely more receptive on subsequent attempts and had even made him promise not to scan her, a promise that he had kept thus far (against his better judgement).

This particular evening he was even more confused to find that Missy’s toilet visits were even more out of hand and her appetite had apparently disappeared entirely. She’d barely touched a bite of her food, whereas the Doctor had nearly finished despite constant interruption. She was currently visiting the toilet _ yet again _. It was putting him off his own meal, the worry was starting to get to him. What could she possibly be doing in there? Self harming? Had she become bullemic? (Unlikely as she had barely touched her chips, let alone her fish!)

A high-pitched whimper came from behind the door into her loo. He stood abruptly, tossing his napkin down on his plate, and stormed across the room.

“Missy!” he called, now becoming annoyed in addition to worried. He wished that she would trust him rather from hide from him in this way.

“Just a minute!” her voice returned, sounding just a bit high-pitched at the end. He could hear her panting through the door, then humming under her breath as if...as if she was trying to not cry out. In pain? Only...he wasn't sure that it did sound like she was in pain. At all. She couldn’t possibly be pleasuring herself in there, could she? While he was in the next room? He reached for the doorknob, transfixed, when her voice came again: “I’ll be out presently,” she hissed, just as he touched metal.

He desisted in turning the knob but stood his ground, continuing to listen. She was definitely breathing more deeply than usual, exhaling stridently as she seemed to come down from whatever she was experiencing. She swore under her breath, and the toilet flushed.

He immediately heard her footsteps just on the other side of the door between them, and jumped backwards, not eager to seem controlling. The balance between them was presently disrupted. He made the rules, she followed them...almost meekly. The door opened a moment later, and they both froze. She stared up at him, actually _ blushing_.

“Mind if I…” he gestured towards her, towards the doorway she was still standing in.

“Not at all,” she pronounced too brightly. She took two steps towards him, and he had to slide to the side to avoid a collision. They turned simultaneously, switching positions, him backing into the loo, her backing towards the table. She watched him close the door behind himself.

Once sequestered he inhaled sharply, looking around for any incriminating evidence. There was no strong smell to speak of. She obviously hadn’t vomited or actually been using the toilet at all. The wastebasket was empty, the sink and towels dry, the toilet immaculately clean. He opened the cupboards, found them mostly bare (as they should be), only her makeup and various personal hygiene items. He shut the cabinet again. Flushed the toilet, washed his hands, emerged back into the Vault.

She was sitting at the table again, staring at her plate. She took a sip of tea as he approached, refusing to meet his gaze as he sat down before her.

“Missy, I…”

“Excuse me,” she interrupted, standing abruptly.

“Sit down,” he commanded firmly.

She froze, but did not comply. “Is it too much to ask for you to sit down with me for five minutes put together?” he asked. “Surely you don’t need to go again.”

“No, I…”

"Sit down,” he repeated. She seated herself gingerly, rearranging her napkin in her lap, straightening her silverware, twiddling with the handle of her teacup. She was making him nervous now. “Missy…”

She abruptly inhaled sharply, her entire frame tensing. It was almost five minutes to the second since he had heard her whimper from the adjoining room, and here she was clutching at the arm of her chair and breathing in such a way that...once again, he wasn’t sure if she was in pain or… She shifted in her chair, her hips rotating minutely, and he felt even more certain that she was taking some sort of pleasure in the experience. It was his turn to blush as she bit back a whimper, turning in her chair to hide her face from him. 

He forced his frame into action, traversing the distance between, kneeling before his oldest friend. “Hey,” he pronounced gently, grabbing her hand. She freely let go of the chair and transferred her grip to his hand, clutching onto him as if he were a lifeline, taking great gasping breaths. Whatever it was, it was ending, and she seemed to be coming out of her own world and back to to the one he was in. “Please, won’t you trust me?” he asked quietly. “Whatever it is, we can fix it…” 

“You can’t fix this,” she denied, voice breaking. 

“Well surely I could help…” 

“I’m sorry,” she wrenched her hand from his, pushing herself to her feet. She fled to the toilet again. He remained kneeling for moments longer, then stood, beginning to pace. 

He could follow her. It would be easy to force his way into the room where she was currently hiding away. But he wanted her to trust him. To choose to share whatever was distressing her. She seemed fragile at present, tentative and unsure of..what his reaction might be? If he could help her at all? Perhaps she was too embarrassed, or the memory of what she had experienced and was still experiencing were just too painful to give voice to yet. He continued to pace, waiting long, tense minutes, debating with himself, waiting to find out what would happen next. 

Missy cried out in pain (this time obvious), not even attempting to stifle the noise anymore. He practically ran to the door, hovering just outside uncertainly. Once again, five minutes had passed between...her episodes. She whimpered, and he listened fretfully to the sound of...the bath filling. Silence mostly. And then to her slipping into said bath and sighing in relief. He placed his palm against the door, still hovering. “Go away, Doctor!” she hissed. 

He continued to debate with himself long seconds more, then straightened, deciding: 

“No,” he told her. “I won’t come in unless you ask,” he promised. “But I’m not going to just leave you.” 

“Please,” she whimpered. He could practically feel her...writhing. She was breathing slowly, and deeply. Panting in a way that sounded, well, very aroused. If ever so slightly desperate. Her voice caught in her throat, and she went “mmm…” and then panted some more. 

“Please what?” he asked, leaning against the door, forehead first. He continued to will his body to relax, to not react. He wasn’t doing so well in the endeavor. Missy’s voice caught in her throat again, then gave out a sound of satisfaction. Of relief. 

Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react. Stop it. Go down. Completely unnecessary. She’s in pain. Pain. Need. “Missy please,” he petitioned quietly. 

“Promise me you won’t look,” she breathed. 

“What?” his eyes opened. He stared at the wood not centimeters from his face in confusion. 

“Promise me that you won’t look and you can come in,” she ordered him. He blinked, considering the request. 

“Okay,” he agreed. “I promise. I won't look.” He closed his eyes tightly and ran his palm down the door until he found the knob: “Eyes closed. I’m coming in.” 

The door was nearly silent as it swung open. He stepped through the doorway, hand outstretched, and followed the sound of running water and Missy’s breathing...currently less labored than it had been. He could feel the warm, humid air thicken the closer he got to where he remembered the tub to be. After a handful of steps, a hand wrapped around the wrist of his outstretched hand. Missy’s skin was cool, clammy even, her fingers trembling as she guided him the last few tentative shuffles towards herself. 

He knelt down on a soft rug spread across cool, tiled floor, and--after a gentle swishing of water and slight tug at is wrist--Missy let go of his hand to press both of her hands to his face, wrapping a piece of fabric over his eyes. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of _ her_... Cayenne and starch, pomegranate and traces of her sweat, and something underlying it all that made his cock twitch insistently. He bowed his head so Missy could tie a knot at the back of it, then turned his face up so she could examine the fit of his blindfold. 

Missy’s hands lingered on his face, touch feather-soft and incredibly intimate. A part of him wanted to pull away, to run. He turned his mouth towards one of her palms, pressing a tender kiss in it before encasing them both in his own. She inhaled sharply, yanking one hand away suddenly, her lingering fingers meshing with his own, hand twisting to grip his hand firmly. A whimper caught in her throat, and the water sounded agitated. Was she writhing in pleasure-pain again? It had been another five minutes. 

He counted the seconds. After 58.7 she stopped whimpering and fidgeting, death grip relaxing, breathing normalizing again. “Is there anything I can do?” he petitioned once he was sure it was over. 

“Nothing,” she declared, sighing. “Just stay with me a while.” 

“How long has this gone on?” he asked. A laugh caught in her throat: 

“That’s a rather vague question for the situation at hand,” she replied softly. “It’s a new development that I must confess has caught me completely off guard. But the underlying issue itself? Months and months now.” 

“Months?” he despaired. “Missy, why didn’t you say anything? You’ve been under my care for _ weeks _ now.” There was a slight grinding, squeaking noise as Missy turned off the spiget that had still been filling the tub. The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by tiny drops of water hitting the surface of the bath, but he sensed that she still needed more time to gather her thoughts. Too much pressure may cause her to clam up again, to evict him from the room. 

“I don’t know how to talk about this,” she confessed. “I don’t even remember all of it, it’s beyond comprehension, and...I must confess that I rather hoped to spare you unnecessary pain. I thought I could hide it; handle it on my own.”

“Spare _ me _ pain?” he marvelled. “Missy please, I have a duty of care,” he insisted. There came a pregnant pause: 

“That’s new,” she noted. “_You _ take care of _ me_?” She sounded dubious. He had abandoned her on Skaro after all. 

“I am trying,” he defended. “I know I’ve hurt you. Just please... let me make it better.” She barked a sharp laugh, removing her hand from his grip: 

“‘Make it better,’” she mocked. “Doctor, this isn’t a booboo you can kiss away. ” 

“That isn’t what I meant,” he returned tiredly. “I don’t want to fight, I just want to...fix this,” he gestured helplessly. "Make amends." 

“You can’t fix everything, Doctor. I know you try…” Her extracted hand was suddenly in his hair, fingertips gently running through his curls. “But it’s too late for that now...mngh!” Another wave was upon her. Her hand was cupping his nape now, fingers twisting in the hair there, pulling painfully as she groaned and panted. 

Impressions flashed behind his eyes, telepathic sendings that were projected along with the impression of vice-like pain. The sterile smell of hospital, menacing and amplified. The stark sensation of cold metal...beneath her back, around her wrists and ankles, piercing her veins. Inside her womb. Her scream piercing darkness. The taste of bile in her mouth as her stomach rolled with extreme nausea. Davros’ voice whispering gloating taunts into her ear, his hot breath a whisper against her cheek… 

_ “You will bear my new legacy,” _ he had growled out. _ “I have finally done what the Doctor ran away from, what he hoped to avoid. I alone have succeeded in bringing the hybrid to fruition...” _

The stream of consciousness memories faded as quickly as they had begun, 61.3 seconds after her latest wave had begun, four minutes and 57.2 seconds after the one previous. Almost like clockwork. 

“So now you know,” she gasped out. 

“You’re pregnant?” he choked out, feeling like a right idiot for not figuring it out sooner. 

“Impregnated. Subdued. Defiled...” she choked out, self-loathing evident in her voice. “I am in _ hell _. I cannot control my body, cannot end this…” 

“This is _ my _ fault,” he realized. 

“You hardly made Davros run his experiments on me. It was mere chance that he even ‘succeeded’...” 

“No, but I left you on Skaro because you endangered Clara…” 

“Saved Clara,” she corrected under her breath. “But then I may have been a little too playful with…” 

“You shouldn’t have brought her!” he insisted. 

“I couldn’t find you without her,” she rebutted. “It was her idea to follow you into the fire, I simply ensured that she wasn’t burnt too badly. I kept her safe, _ me_. What did you do? Extend the Daleks’ lives a few decades. Get entangled in those snakes’ clutches time and again. Ensure that Davros would be alive to continue his experimentation…”

“I know you saved me and Clara both, thank you,” he backpedaled. “Please don’t be upset, it can’t be good for you or for...for the baby.” 

“Baby,” she scoffed again. “There isn’t a _ baby _, there are only little monsters. This isn’t my first rodeo.” 

“What?” he asked so very quietly that he could barely hear his own voice. 

“They come every six weeks like clockwork. Litters of three to six... cephalopods, not humanoids. The first ones were all dead...stillborn. Not one has lived more than 24 hours.” 

He suddenly wished he hadn’t eaten quite so hearty a supper. His stomach rolled, and he bowed his head, dizzy. 

“That’s…” his head was pounding. Adrenaline. Despair. This was almost beyond comprehension. Missy pulled him closer, pressing his face to her bare shoulder. 

“Breathe Doctor,” she urged him quietly. She was petting him again. Soothing him. As if he deserved such a kindness. 

“I am so, so sorry,” he intoned. Saliva had flooded his mouth, tasted strongly of copper. He gagged, but somehow managed to keep his dinner down. “If I could take away this...if I could change the past…” 

“I know you would,” she murmured, still petting him. “I didn’t want your compassion or regret, but I’ve gone weak...” she sighed. “Things are different this time.” He was almost afraid to ask:

“Different how?”

“I’ve never carried this large,” she confessed. “It was easy to hide before, they were so small. And these pains, so regular and even more painful than labor has ever been. But they’re coming early: I shouldn’t be ready to deliver for three or four more days yet.” 

“Have you had any Braxton-Hicks?” he probed.

“What?”

It took him a long moment to remember the Gallifreyan term for the same phenomenon and relay it to her. “Sporadically,” she confirmed. “Never for this length of time, never this painfully.” 

“How long have you been like this?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. 

“Oh, a couple hours,” she said in an off hand way, shifting uncomfortably. “They woke me from my nap.” Over an hour then. But certainly less than three. Six weeks, six weeks. She had already been through this since he had retrieved her, had hidden it from him. He sat up again, and she released his hair, one hand lingering against his throat. She pinched his collar distractedly. 

“Have you checked yourself,” he asked quietly. “For...progress?” 

“Not...” she grabbed at his shoulder, clutching at his jacket and twisting it in her grip. “Not since…” she panted, voice shifting to sound more like...singing. Deep low, resonant moans that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her. He remained silent as she vocalized, not sure what support he could or should give at a time like this. He felt rather helpless hearing her start to thrash back and forth in the water. Her singing became a low cry of distress, a resonant “Ohhhh!” of desperation that culminated in her begging: “Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.” 

“Breathe, Missy,” he urged, reaching out for her. His hands blindly found her shoulders and neck, cupped her face, steadying her. 

“It hurts,” she whined, clinging to his hands for purchase. “It’s not letting go…” 

“Not long now,” he told her more loudly but still gently, his voice steady and even. “Listen to the sound of my voice. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three…” she sagged, sighing with relief… “two, one,” he finished. It took long seconds more for her breathing to stabilize. 

“How did...?” she marveled. “What did you do?” 

“I’ve been counting,” he informed. “Just counting. They’ve very precise. Five minutes apart, one minute in length give or take…”

“They feel like an eternity,” she bemoaned. “My time sense is...off-kilter at present. I think it’s the hormones." 

“Would you like me to count next time?” he asked. 

“Please no, not again,” she petitioned desperately. “Something is wrong, this doesn’t feel right, please can’t you...” her voice caught in her throat, and she sobbed: “make it stop…” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you,” he reassured. “You need to relax. Your stress is making it worse, you understand?” She shook her head back and forth between his cradling hands. “I need you to breathe with me, okay?” He breathed in deeply, blew out slowly, modeling for her a meditative breathing pattern. Once she had caught the rhythm, he nodded encouragingly: “That’s it, trust your body,” he told her. “It knows what it’s doing.” She whimpered, but carried on breathing in the same way. “Just relax, it will help.” 

“Easy for you to say,” she shot back, shaking off his hands. “Trust a man…” she swore under her breath. 

“I think you’re in false labor,” he informed her patiently once some of the stress had left her neck. “It hurts like the Dickens but it’s only your body warming up for the real thing. I’m so sorry. But I am perfectly willing to perform any and all medical examinations that will put your mind at ease if that helps. Have you checked your progress at all?” 

“Not today,” she answered. “Not since last night.” 

“Would you like me to check you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she responded quietly. “Yes, it’s just that...they don’t come in a completely _ normal _ way. They are invertebrates after all.” 

“I’m sorry, I can’t help but wonder about the logistics here,” he confessed (though it seemed he would find out soon enough, the curiosity was killing him). “Most cephalopods lay eggs…” 

“...but of course mammals don’t,” she finished for him. “They’re small, and it’s not difficult, barely painful at all. And they just sort of...writhe and ooze out.” 

“You birth them live?” She laughed bitterly: 

“Dead is more likely, but yes. Oh...” She started to pant, then remembered her breathing, and started to take deep breaths, blowing each of them out slowly. She tilted her face into one of his palms, grabbed hold of his wrists tightly. She started ‘singing’ again, giving a long, low moan that made his long-ignored cock start to harden once more. “Oh that’s better,” she confessed, breathing deeply again. Her mind was bright against his. Tired but most definitely not in pain. “That one’s finished,” she confirmed. Her brightness faded over the next few moments. Fatigue started to pull at her, which in turn pulled at him.

“That one was shorter,” he noted. “I can see you’re exhausted, you should try to get some rest soon.” She made a little murmuring noise...agreement? “Missy, I can’t see you, you need to use your words,” he pointed out. 

“Yes Doctor,” she mumbled. 

“I’ve been worried about you for days. Does this process normally drain you this much?” 

“Not this much, no,” she told him quietly. “If my next contraction is easier like that last one...I’ll try to get some rest.” Her voice was low and sleepy sounding. “Just give me a few minutes alone to wash and change.” 

“All right,” he agreed, pushing himself to his feet. He gave her hand one last squeeze, turned and left the room, easing the door shut behind himself and leaning against it to decompress. His Little Time Lord was a still out of sorts, half hard and begging for attention. He ripped the blindfold off his face and started mentally listing the bones of the body in alphabetical order. By the time he’d gotten through the list...no, still at half mast. He surreptitiously adjusted himself, then started doing complicated recreational mathematics silently in his head. 

Nearly ten minutes passed before he heard Missy again. She made a little squeaking sound of distress and...she was panting again. He listened, holding his breath, enthralled by every little sound she made. Every whimper, every moan, as she waited for the contraction to abate. Not for the first time, he got the distinct feeling that Missy was not in distress so much as...receiving pleasure. Pleasuring herself? She was trying to be quiet about it, but each little sound she made caused his Little Time Lord to harden even more. 

He should leave, he knew he should. Take a cold shower. Clean up their supper and turn down the bed. Anything but stick his hand down his pants and trousers to take himself in hand and start wanking off. For once in his life, he did not do what he should. With each whimper, moan, and gasp she made he worked his erection faster, a part of him wondering what it would be like to prompt Missy make those noises himself, another part of him wondering what exactly she was doing right now. At this very instant. Naked. In the next room. Touching herself. While he touched himself. 

Another low-pitched song came out of her mouth, only to be cut off, no...muffled. This song sounded completely different. Not of pain or effort or distress. Relief. Pleasure. Ecstasy. He held Missy’s neck tie-turned-blindfold over his mouth, muffling a groan as he came hard, ejaculating over his hand like an over-eager schoolboy. He froze, listening again, wondering if Missy had heard. What was he even doing? 

He jumped away from the door he was leaning against, half-running, half-waddling to the table. He used a napkin to clean himself up, then tucked his now-sated Little Time Lord back away in his pants. He’d made a right mess of things but that couldn’t be helped now. He started to clear away what was left of dinner. 

Missy didn’t emerge from the bathroom until a full ten minutes later. She looked knackered but much more relaxed than she had earlier. She padded over to him, barefoot and clothed only in a nightgown. A long, white cotton nightgown with long sleeves, trimmed with a bit of pink ribbon, that left most of her figure to the imagination. His throat tightened as she approached, and he couldn’t help but try to study every little detail about her. 

She’d plaited her hair but some of her flyaways were damp and curling around her face and nape. She looked slightly green and unsteady. She crinkled her nose and turned her face away from the greasy packaging that lay in the top of the dustbin he currently held. He’d been wiping the crumbs into it from off the table. He quickly set the dustbin aside out of sight, then turned to give her his full attention. 

“Do you have your sonic?” she asked tiredly, wrapping her hands around one of his and practically leaning against him. 

“Right here in my pocket,” he returned, pulling it out with his free hand and flipping it before catching it once more. She pressed her cheek against his bicep, inhaling deeply, then sighing.

“Will you scan me before I go to sleep?” she swayed slightly. “They’ve slowed down but I’d like to know.” 

“Of course,” he agreed. “I’ll just wash my hands and meet you by your bed.” She pulled at his hand, melding her fingers between his, lifted her face up...and time seemed to lengthen between them. Her mouth was so close to his. Wiped clean from any color but still pink and moist and soft. He could feel her breath on his throat, smell her toothpaste, practically taste... 

“Thank you,” she interrupted his train of thought abruptly. “I hate to be a bother…”

“No no, no bother,” he quickly assured her. 

“...not quite sure how to act.” He took a deep breath: 

“So I’m not the only one, then,” he acknowledged, the tension instantly draining out of him, the spell broken. 

“I have all these strange _ urges _ ,” she lamented. “Pains and fatigue and cravings and…” their eyes met, and he became keenly aware of how small she was compared to him. She mostly smelled of her soap, but he could still smell _ her _ beneath. Fertile and vulnerable. He wasn't used to feeling as if she needed help from anyone. It shocked him to realize how much he wanted to protect her. He turned to face her fully, lifted his hands to cup her cheeks gently: 

“Missy,” he soothed. “I understand if you hate me, if you want to kill me even. But I’m your friend if you’ll still have me. You can tell me to sod off or abuse me as much as you like. But I _ will not _leave you alone; I’m not going anywhere, not while you so clearly need me. And if you need anything, anything at all, all you need to do is ask.” Missy cocked her head, smiling: 

“Anything?” she teased playfully. 

“Within reason,” he amended. “Whatever makes this easier for you, or more comfortable, more bearable…” She lifted her face to him again, unexpectedly pulling him into a hug and pressing her entire body against his. _ Oh_. Her limbs were firm and lithe, but her normally fastidiously concealed belly was caught between them, pressed firmly against his hip, and he had no idea how to react. He never knew what to do with his hands during a hug. His arms were caught up folded between them awkwardly, and she squeezed hard, then let go of him, throwing him off kilter. His hands found her waist, inadvertently pulling her nightgown tighter against her front, his eyes instantly zeroing in… 

She was round. Not overly large, it was just a small dome, perhaps the size of a human female that was five or six months along. Not a planet. But he felt as if he was caught in its gravity just the same. A deer in headlights. Hypnotized. He wanted to touch it. Smell it. Listen. Taste her skin, nuzzle at the flesh and discover how firm, how soft, how sensitive… 

Missy slapped at his hands, knocking them away from her sides. She backed away from him, putting some space between them, looking skittish. Her body was hidden away beneath her nightgown again. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, holding his hands out in surrender. He felt dizzy all of a sudden. Missy looked astonished: 

“I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me," she apologized. "You weren’t even threatening…” 

“Ah, but I didn’t ask permission,” he continued. “You initiated a hug. Any attention directed towards your condition was clearly unwelcome. Which explains why you’ve been so reluctant to allow me to medically examine you.” 

"You didn't want me before, how could you possibly want me now?" she asked so very quietly that even he could barely hear her. 

“Don't worry, I won’t touch you again,” he soothed. 

“But I want you to,” she confessed. “Want it so much it hurts, but my body...is disgusting. Why do I want to show you but also want to run away and hide?” 

“Well I’d imagine it’s a combination of hormones and trauma,” he confessed. “Intimacy would make you feel safe and cared for but the changes in your body coupled with the experimentation and torture also make you feel vulnerable and out of control.” 

She shuddered, her breathing deepening minutely, her hands rising to cup her gravid belly. “Contraction?” he asked. 

“No, they’re agitated,” she rubbed her belly distractedly, almost as if she didn’t even realize that she was touching it herself. She removed her hands abruptly, lifting one to the small of her back, the other to her forehead. “I can't do this alone anymore,” she decided. 

She snagged his hand and pulled him along behind her towards the bed. An unexpected frisson of expectation ran through him as she dropped his hand to pull back the covers and sit down. She pulled him down to sit beside her, then scooted farther onto the bed and laid in the center, leaving him room to comfortably sit beside her. 

She ran both of her hands over her distended lower abdomen, rubbing lightly, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She grabbed his nearest hand to hold to her side, just above her hip: “One,” she counted. Something shifted underneath her skin, as if it were writhing. She moved their hands a bit higher, nearer her waistline: “Two,” a slight readjustment, “three, both already deceased I think.” Across her body to her other side: “Four, big boy, taking up all the room.” Four squirmed and poked back against the pressure, the most active of the fetuses thus far. He inhaled sharply in surprise. Big boy apparently had an attitude. 

Missy lingered at Four for a long moment before placing his hand lower down, more to the center. “Five,” she pronounced. He felt a pronounced outline, but this one was still beneath his touch. And then she moved their hands even lower, directly above her pubic bone. “Six,” she whispered. “Already engaged.” More writhing against his fingertips, but Six was deep in her pelvis and mostly behind Five. It was difficult to feel how big this last one might be. 

“May I?” he asked quietly, stretching his free hand towards her tentatively. 

"Okay," she meekly agreed. She tucked her arms behind her head and watched his face as he began to gently palpate her abdomen, trying to get a better feel for the size and condition of each fetus. He judged most of the...litter?...to all be about the same size. Big boy was easily twice as large as the others and tried to shift away from his touch. It was hard to judge just how big he might be. Missy’s skin went rigid beneath his hands as big boy rolled over and burrowed deeper inside her. “I’m sorry, is that painful?” he asked. 

“No, it just tickles a bit,” she denied. 

“I meant the contraction.”

“Am I?” she asked, looking down at the rigid dome of her belly, freeing one hand to cup the side of her abdomen. “I don’t even feel it. Ugh: big boy is bouncing on my spine.” She rolled towards him, bringing her knees up closer to his bum, then wrapped her arm around her belly, supporting it. Rubbing it absent-mindedly. She seemed more relaxed now. 

“You said you’re carrying large,” he probed. “Are _ they _ larger than...before?”

“Big boy is my largest yet,” she confirmed. “But i think each pregnancy they grow a bit larger. My last brood was only three, they may have been about the same size as most of these. The brood before that they were smaller, less active.” The Doctor considered his next words, whether he should even ask, but the entire situation beggared belief... 

“Do you mind if I ask...who the father is?” Missy shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze, her eyes sliding away from his now. 

“Jealous are you?” she quipped. She cleared her throat: “Davros realized sometime after his first few failures that Time Lords can mate while they’re still pregnant and hold a backup in reserve. In fact, it turns out that’s when a Time Lady is most fertile. He also discovered that when multiple sperm donors are available that the Time Lady’s body chooses the one with the strongest traits to fertilize her eggs with. I say eggs since he found a way to force my body to release multiple ova each month...” Her voice shook and he reached down to cover her hand with his own. “To sum up, the little buggers all try to knock me up with the next brood before they vacate the premises. And they’re aggressive about it, too, big boy killed two and three and maimed five.” 

“So big boy is almost definitely the father of your next brood?” he confirmed quietly.

“Ye_p _,” she agreed. “I guess I should get used to being frumpy, because my corset isn’t going to fit for much longer.” She rubbed her abdomen some more, staring off into the distance. “Doesn’t even fit properly now,” she stated, voice barely above a whisper. 

“You seem remarkably calm about all of this,” he noted, watching her. She came back to him, eyes focusing on his again. 

“Do I?” she asked, scratching her belly absent-mindedly. She shrugged: “You know me. I’ve always been one to roll with the punches,” her voice was too bright, too casual. Her eyes glistened. “I just don’t think that 'f_r_eaking out' is going to help me out of this, you know?” she sniffed loudly. “Can we get on with this? A girl’s got to sleep.” 

“Of course,” he pulled out his sonic and set it in Missy’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “Point and think,” he prompted. 

The sonic buzzed pleasantly. Scans flitted across their consciousnesses in quick succession, heart rates, temperatures, hormone levels, blood pressure. It was a lot to take in at once. Two and three were, in fact, deceased. Five was not likely to last much longer. Big boy and six were strongest. One was using its deceased siblings to shield itself from the others. Smarter, not stronger. How would Missy’s body choose between such potentials? Had Davros ensured that his preferred traits would thrive or was it all down to Missy’s biology? 

“No more,” Missy demanded, pushing the sonic away from her body. The Doctor’s mind was still moving at lightspeed as he tucked his sonic away, out of sight, and reached out to touch Missy’s shoulder reassuringly. She was shaking, but she was still managing to keep it together and not cry. "Too much," she intoned. "And yet not enough. We still don't know how far I've progressed... if at all." 

"Not the sort of medical scan that I'd ever thought to program into the sonic," he admitted. "It still doesn't do wood." 

"That's because you'd need my help to ever have a hope of accomplishing it," she insulted smoothly. He couldn't help but give her a small smile. "Did you mean it when you offered to examine my...progress?" she asked nervously. 

"I meant it," he told her softly. "That is, if you're comfortable with me touching you in that way." She inhaled shakily, exhaled slowly. 

"Needs must," she decided. "Please be gentle with me." She quickly wiped away a stray tear from under one eye. 

"One moment," he disappeared into bathroom to wash his hands thoroughly. There was a medkit tucked away in the bathroom cupboard, some coconut oil in the spice cupboard in the kitchen. He retrieved both as quickly as possible. Returned to the bedside with his supplies and arranged them on the nightstand. Washed his hands again thoroughly before returning to his friend again. 

Missy was still laying partly on her side, absentmindedly rubbing her belly. He opened up the oil, gloved up and rubbed his hands together to warm them a bit. "How are you doing?" he asked, spreading oil around on his right glove. 

"Fine," she responded shakily. 

"Any more contractions?" She shook her head:

"Not in a long while." 

"Good," he told her reassuringly. As reassuring as he could be in this form at least. "Now, I'm going to need you to…" 

Missy preemptively twisted back onto her back and lifted her legs in one smooth motion, spreading her knees wide, placing her feet flat on the bed near her bum. Much as she would on an exam table with stirrups. She gradually gathered her nightgown up under her bump, completely exposing her legs and...sex. Not that he could see such things properly from his current vantage point.

He took a steadying breath. "I'm going to sit down between your knees if that's okay," he informed her. She nodded. He sat down, lubricated glove held up so he didn't touch anything with it. He couldn't help but notice that she wasn't wearing knickers. He kept his eyes on her face once he was situated. "How are you doing so far?" he asked. 

"Not bad," she mumbled, fingers twisting in her gathered nightgown folds. "A little cold." 

"Do I have your permission to…to-touch you?" he stuttered. She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile: 

"It would be kind of hard for you to examine me otherwise," she noted dryly. 

"Missy," he petitioned.

"Yes, Doctor: you have permission to touch anywhere below my waist that you see fit," she sighed. 

"Thank you." He wanted to do whatever he could to make this easier for her but was starting to suspect that she was somewhat immune to the examination part. Which begged the question: why her earlier resistance? "I'm going to insert my fingers now, just try to relax…" 

Her labia glistened in the lamplight. He eased his first two fingers into her channel, carefully prodding at her cervix. What struck him first was how _ warm _ she felt inside. Warm, and so very wet, and soft. Her sex was engorged and slick. He could feel her heartsbeat against his digits. He could smell her own body's lubrication, his nose itching with the heady aroma that was _ Missy_. Missy distressed. Missy...aroused. Very aroused. Her vaginal walls momentarily clenched around the intrusion of...his hand was up his best friend's vagina. The full magnitude of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. He blinked, carried on his examination as gently as possible, and then retreated as carefully as possible. 

She inhaled shakily as he eased his hand out. He took another steadying breath through his mouth, which wasn't the best of ideas. It prevented him from smelling her arousal but her scent was so strong that he could taste it in the air just as easily. His wrist brushed against the inside of Missy's thigh as he shifted away from her. Her knees closed and tilted away from him as she swiftly spread her nightgown over her knees, flashing him just a glimpse of her lower abdomen in the process. 

The Doctor had already averted his eyes but it was enough. He had seen more than enough. He glanced at his glove as he started to peel it off, freezing when he realized that...the oil and discharge spread there were tinged green. Emerald green with a touch of brown. He turned the glove inside out as he removed it, turned to find Missy studying him frankly. "You're 2 centimeters dilated, nearly fully effaced, and at -1 station," he rattled off quietly. 

“Not significant progress then,” she mused, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Her linea nigra--the dark line bisecting her abdomen--had also been more green than brown he realized. Now that he had seen her bump, even just a brief flash of it, it was difficult to get the image out of his mind. 

He shouldn't have allowed himself to look, she'd made it very clear earlier that she had wanted her modesty preserved. He briefly considered apologizing but decided that he didn't want to draw attention to his faux pas. "Penny for your thoughts," she sing-songed, prodding his bum with her bare toes. He smiled briefly, hoping that his face wasn't betraying anything. 

"You should get some sleep while you still can," he suggested. 

"Why Doctor, are you lying?" she intoned, stretching out languidly against him, all casualness. 

"Missy..." he pronounced tiredly. 

"Green," she pronounced melodically. "Green, green, green. Oh so very green." He sighed: 

"Yes, green," he agreed quietly. 

"I’ll try to get some sleep while I still can then," she rattled off drowsily, rolling away from the Doctor, curling around her abdomen, into a fetal position. So far as humanoids reckoned such things. He couldn’t be sure what position Dalek/Gallifreyan fetuses assumed en vitro unless he performed an ultrasound... and he wasn’t going to even suggest it. 

And suddenly Missy's hand was wrapped around his: “Join me?” she softly petitioned. He shrugged: 

"If you're sure?" 

"I am," she said with quiet finality. 

He stood and threw his glove away in the nearest dustbin. Packed up all the supplies in the medkit, screwed the cap back onto the oil. Shrugged out of his jacket, toed off his shoes, dropped his trousers, unbuttoned and stripped off his vest. Set it all aside before stretching out his frame behind Missy’s shivering form, scooting into the empty space behind her. He reached across her to snag the duvet and pull it over her. She abruptly pressed herself as close to him as she could manage. He froze as she melted against him, pulling his arm around her waist, sighing in satisfaction as she settled in. She was _ so warm _ against him. Had been warm around his... 

He stopped that line of thought in its tracks. Took a steadying breath only to be overwhelmed by the scent of her once more. Her hair was a mere centimeters away, had apparently been up as she bathed since it was still mostly dry. His thoughts gradually drifted.

They had slept together often as children; she was always sneaking into his bed in the middle of the night. Her hair had never been this long, this manic. Her breathing had already deepened. She shifted against him, turning in his arms so that her legs were draped over his, her face pressed to his chest. She was well and truly in his arms. And it felt like home. He watched over her a long while, his own breaths gradually lengthening, until he finally succumbed to sleep.

  
  


Something was nudging against him. Poking him in the stomach insistently. Trying to get his attention. Squirming unhappily. 

The Doctor's eyes opened. Missy was draped over him even more fully than she had been when they had fallen asleep. Their legs had tangled and intertwined. Her belly was firmly wedged between them, against him. It felt positively _ alive _against his body, its occupants obviously awake. Long minutes passed, and suddenly the taut dome caught between them was going firmly rigid... and yet she was sleeping through a contraction obliviously. His morning wood was tucked against one of her hips. His knee was warm and...wet? 

MIssy shifted against his leg, whimpering, and gasped awake, twisting away from him abruptly, once more the little spoon, curled up around herself. She started singing...moaning...low and resonantly. She abruptly cupped one hand between her legs, her pelvis rocking as she continued riding out her latest contraction. The Doctor sat up behind her, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. Or anything else for that matter. 

Missy stopped moaning and started blowing, what he could see of her turned-away face turning redder in the early, pre-dawn light. The distance between her knees fluctuated between firmly pressed together and partially spread, and then...she lifted her upper knee higher, taking a great breath and holding it. The Doctor grabbed hold of her leg automatically, gently held it higher, wider open, as she strained, humming, then practically writhed. There was a long pause, another sound of effort, and then she sagged back again, hand falling to the side unheded. 

Green fluid was spreading across the sheets between Missy's legs, a few drops of it splashed across the surface of her nightgown where her legs were still loosely covered. Something was squirming across her belly beneath the fabric, upward. It disappeared entirely in the hidden valley between her breasts, then mounted her left. The creature made a chirping noise, then fell silent. 

"Oh, hello," she murmured. "Still alive I see." She rolled back towards him, fully onto her back, one arm thrown across her forehead. He dropped her leg, startled to realize that he had been touching her in such a way. She lifted her knees, not unlike the way she had the night before, and made a little humming sound. He could see her stomach going hard again, the way the nightgown was currently stretched across it left little enough to the imagination. He could practically see movement underneath her skin. 

And she was pushing again already, though not too forcefully to speak. "Catch for me, Doctor," she instructed, pulling up her sodden nightgown just enough to uncover her thighs. Her hands stopped mid-pull, another sound through her nose, very similar to before, her lips mashed together in concentration. Once that contraction ended she took great gasping breaths. Whimpered, rocking her pelvis: "Doctor!" 

"Sorry, yes," he agreed, lifting himself to kneel between Missy's knees. As soon as he was situated Missy was already pushing again, the lips of her sex stretching around the gooey brown head of the next fetus, still stubbornly resisting its exit. She wasn’t fully dilated, not to the 10 cm of a standard labor. That hadn’t seemed to cause an issue with her first delivery of the morning however. 

“Can’t quite get it out,” she complained as the contraction ended. As everything relaxed the fetus receded slightly, seeming to throb in and out of her bulging vagina on its own. When the next contraction began, she began to push stridently again, and he reached out instinctively to press his fingertips on either side of her entrance, holding open her labia just a bit wider as her sex bloomed, and she panted, making a sound that evoked pleasure and made his dick throb hopefully… as a crumpled body popped out into his hands suddenly, tentacles twitching but too weak to crawl anywhere. Missy carried on breathing deeply, coming down from her latest effort. 

The tiny thing looked very Dalek. Its tentacled mass was more rigid than he had anticipated after seeing a hint of its sibling slithering up her body. It wheezed once, then went still. It was around the size of an orange, all curled up and...dead. He stared at it a long time, his mind struggling to comprehend. This had just come out of Missy's body. He felt dazed, only half awake. Only his cock was fully awake and insistently rigid. Why was that happening just now?

Missy made a little squeal of surprise, bringing him back to the present, and he set the new corpse aside at the foot of the bed. By the time he turned back her hips were rotating in figure eights, pelvis tilting upward as… the next fetus squirmed out of her passage with a great slurp, using its own tentacles to prise itself free of the narrow channel. Once free, the tiny cephalopod expanded back into its natural form and shook itself off before reorientating itself. His jaw dropped as he watched the fetus slip up Missy's domed belly just as the first fetus had, disappearing beneath her nightclothes before spreading itself out over her right breast. 

Three down, three to go, and suddenly there was a lull in events. The first three had come almost on top of one another. Missy dozed as her contractions spread out, not as frequent or furious as they had been, but still simmering beneath the surface. After half an hour without further noticeable progress he reached out to palpate her lopsided, still swollen abdomen. 

The largest fetus was still up high, spread out, then rolling away from his touch. The other two...felt like one mass lower down. Quite low. They were actually engaged now, very possibly still intertwined. He longed to give her another pelvic examination just to determine how dilated she actually was. Not more than 6 cm if her second delivery was any indicator. Which he hoped meant that they wouldn’t give her any trouble delivering, even if it had to be together. But he kept his hands to himself and waited. 

Missy’s next contraction was more fierce and woke her up fully, perhaps inspired by his examination, perhaps by the rolling movements of her still live offspring. Missy groaned, hands twisting in the sheets as she rode it out. 

As soon as the contraction ended she was up, twisting around to perch on all fours over a dry patch of sheet, dripping green across the bed as she made space between them. Another contraction was already beginning, and she spread her knees wide, hiking her nightgown up her hips, and rocking her pelvis and moaning with the intensity of it. “Oh, it’s big,” she noted, hips still working. As soon as one contraction ended, another began, and she started to sing again. 

Not with words...or even the clear intonation that he knew her to be fully capable of. No, this singing was low, and guttural, and full of power. No beauty as such, all effort and determination. She was pushing with earnest, struggling to bring forth something that was already dead. Low pants came forth between each contraction, purposeful breathing, and she never stopped undulating, her hips always shifting and flowing hypnotically, her bum unapologetically bared. Fifteen minutes of this and even with her body turned away he could see her vagina was bulging again, this time with a larger mass, wet and so dark that the greenish brown was almost black. She was close but not quite there yet. Eight centimeters dilated? Nine? 

Missy yelped, and started blowing out stridently. The mass that had been giving her trouble lurched forwards. Her body resisted, but there was a new force behind it now. The mass pulsed forward once, twice, three times, then popped free in a shower of green fluid and red blood. The two intertwined offspring remained absolutely still between their mother’s thighs. An ivory tentacle dangled out of her empty sex, undulated, then retreated again. There was a long pause, and then another contraction came. 

Missy started to sing again, only this song was different, high pitched and strident and her entire body vibrated. A paler, even larger species of offspring was wiggling its way out of her sex, and she she sounded positively ecstatic about it as it worked its way free with a sharp squeal, the quivering mass of its body instantly going tense as it landed with a sickening plop between its mothers thighs. It inflated itself up to its full size--about the size of a grapefruit--gave a tiny roar of fury aimed in his direction, then skittered away across the room, the corpses of its brethren in tow. 

Missy let out a tired sigh and sagged. The Doctor crawled across the damp bed just in time to catch his friend as she collapsed from sheer exhaustion. It was over.


	2. Cum Daleks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy's POV of the events following the Witch's Familiar on Skaro and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic depictions of rapes and their aftermaths. The tags are in full effect, not your cup of tea, then don't read.

Despite her grand declaration of never being the one to run away...in the end Missy did run. Not only did she not want to get caught, but she really did not want to get rejuvenated undead Daleks on her boots. They were her best pair after all. Supple, calf-high, and perfectly broken in to embrace her ankles and toes without constricting them. If she could just stay free long enough for the Doctor to calm down, then figure out a way to get off-planet before he could so she could be the one to rescue him (yet again)...then things would be right as rain. He would have to admit that she’d kept his pet safe and they’d all be home in time for tea.

Only her luck ran out. She ran into a trap. A room that was surrounded by no less than six Daleks. Daleks who had been lying in wait for her no doubt. Which she didn’t cotton on to straight away. So her first instinct was to play for time: 

“You know what....I’ve just had a very clever idea,” she claimed. She didn’t, actually. But they didn’t need to know that.

“Silence!” one of the silver Daleks with turquoise Dalek-bumps commanded as his bronze and silver compatriots closed the circle about her even more tightly. ”We have no need for ‘clever idea’s. You will serve Davros, Dark Lord of All.”

“Over my dead body,” Missy declared boldly. Only for her entire body to spasm in response to the cold bite of a needle piercing her shoulder. She just managed to suppress a squeal of surprise and pain as she spun away from the jet black Dalek that had snuck into the room behind her, bringing the count of her would-be captors up to seven.

“Unlikely,” a bronze version quipped behind her as she swayed on her feet.

No no no. They’d drugged her. The room was already spinning. Or was she still spinning? No, her feet were planted again. She backed into a corner, all fourteen of her captors rotating to face her in unison.

Fourteen? No, that wasn’t right. She blinked, staring at the Daleks as they twisted and undulated in a cacophony of rainbow colors, the overhead lights’ rays extending into stars that overlapped and nearly blinded her. She slid around the edge of the room, broke into a run towards the nearest exit, only for an eighth Dalek to appear in front of her. She didn’t have enough time to react, she skidded to a halt, bouncing off its side, then collided with yet another as she was re-encompassed by a circle of menacing Daleks.

“Escape is impossible,” one pronounced. 

“You will serve Davros,” another declared.

A plunger shot out towards her, causing her to jump in surprise as the rubber collided with her forearm and came alive, reforming to encase her wrist with a surprisingly strong grip, crushing her vortex manipulator as it tightened about her flailing limb. 

The force had knocked her backward. She narrowly avoided colliding with another Dalek, spinning past it, already recovering her balance. She forced herself to ignore the pain as she ducked and weaved behind that Dalek, around another, then turned and braced the thin cable that still connected her to her would-be captor around her hips and planted her feet. She did her best to grasp the cable before herself, doubled back upon itself, and pulled hard.

The Dalek she was connected to toppled forward. Another Dalek ejected its plunger, but she had already dodged out of the way, using the Dalek she had formerly backed into as a shield, using the force of the second plunger and its cable to knock him over as well. Another sidestep and she was stumbling down another corridor, tugging on her cable to keep it playing out behind her as she retreated.

She couldn’t see. Everything was blurring together, dimming, swimming. She was nearly tripping over her own feet now. The cable had finished spooling out. She had hoped for something to wrap it around, to pull against, but there was nothing but smooth corridor walls within reach. Segmented corridor in the typical Dalek style, but without any bars or handholds to put to good use. She backed as far away from her captor as possible, wedging herself in a corner, braced her feet, and yanked hard.

Missy grunted as the nano-rubber handcuff compressed around her wrist, tightening even further around the vortex manipulator. She tugged harder. Her fragile bones screamed in protest as the nano-rubber grip compressed even more, tightening rather than stretching, the nano-rubber redistributing itself further up her arm, wrapping itself around her hand, between her fingers, forming a fingerless glove that molded to her limb like a second skin and held her tight.

Her brooch! She ripped it from her collar, driving it against the cable that still held her captive. The dark star alloy bounced off the metal, scoring it, but not cutting deep enough to sever the connection.

“Retract!” one of the Daleks commanded from a distance.

The cable jerked her forward, tipping her onto her toes, out of her cubby. She barely caught herself, staggering forward, the soles of her boots failing to provide her with any significant traction as she struggled to brace herself anew. The cable pulled her slowly but surely forward. She tilted herself back at an angle, trying to use her own body weight to free herself, to stop the inexorable pull. The nano-rubber only tightened even more, digging twisted metal and plastic against leather, compressing her wrist beyond mere annoyance and into consciousness-threatening territory.

_ Pain _. Nausea. She collided with the wall, inadvertently dropping her brooch and instinctively reaching out to right herself. She squealed in rage and protest, using her still-free hand to try to snag one of the artistic protrusions lining the corridor, scanning the floor for her precious intended-heirloom. She dove for the still bouncing flash of light, fingertips grasping but not quite reaching as she landed on her chest...only for her shoulder to be wrenched painfully as she abruptly reached the end of her tether.

The cable continued retracting, dragging her back into the room she had so recently vacated. So horribly improper and inconvenient. More plungers ejected left and right, colliding with both of her wrists. Missy was hoisted back to her feet. More light, more twisting and turning, more nausea. The bite of a needle once more. And quite against her best efforts, Missy found herself succumbing to the new dose of sedative and finally falling unconscious against her considerable will.

  
  


Missy awoke gradually. Cold air. Bright lights piercing her closed eyelids. She was seated at present. Her arms were wrapped about herself as if she were wearing a straightjacket (not precisely a device she was unfamiliar with, but a first for this form at least). Her hands and arms were tingling, all pins and needles. The gravity had changed, was blatantly artificial, copper around the edges and sinuous. She already knew that she wasn’t on Skaro anymore.

“Welcome back, my dear. Perhaps it will make things easier the sooner you realize that you are mine, to do as I please.”

“I’m not _ your _ dear,” Missy objected, lifting her gaze to meet Davros’ single blue eye, only to clench her eyes shut once more. The room was still spinning, but that glance was enough to tell her that she was still restrained by no less than six Daleks and the remains of her vortex manipulator and brooch were clutched in one of Davros’ hands. “And those who truly have power don’t need to tell anyone,“ she quipped, “but that’s an easy mistake; hardly anyone ever gets it right.”

“I see the Doctor has taught you well,” Davros complained. “Always deflecting, never a straight answer…”

“Excuse me,” Missy objected. “_ I _ taught _ him _!” Tell the truth when no one could possibly believe you. Never let on how scared you are. Never give up, never surrender… “And answer what? You haven’t even asked a question.”

"I have it on good authority that you are a Time Lord," he continued as if she hadn't even spoken.

"Do I look like a man?!?" she scoffed.

"No more games!" Davros exclaimed. "Are you a child of Gallifrey?" She tilted her head back and rolled her eyes.

"Obviously," she agreed.

"Finally we're getting somewhere," he grumbled. "A graduate of the institution known as _ the _ Academy?"

"Top of my class," she acknowledged. "Oh, the things I could design for you."

"We have no need for Gallifreyan designs," a deep voice intoned. The Supreme Dalek was looking a little worse for wear but was still ticking. And listening in on the interrogation apparently. She couldn't see the viewscreen well from her current vantage point but she'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"Veteran of the Time War?"

"Ye_p _."

"Are you perhaps our old enemy Romanadvoratrelundar?" She scoffed, feigning offense before casually throwing out:

"No_p_e."

"The Corsair?"

"Try again." As if tattoos fit her aesthetic!

"Ohila?"

"That witch?!?"

"I'm afraid to say that my knowledge of the Doctor's female counterparts is limited."

"Oh you've heard of me," she assured him. "Sentenced to death by the High Court of Skaro under the Act of Master Restitution for war crimes committed during the Time War. Vanguard during the battle on the slopes of the Never Vault. The…"

"One word shall suffice," Davros interrupted testily.

"...Master," she pronounced. All of her guard retreated minutely in unison. Even Davros became noticeably paler. "But you can call me the Mistress," she stated coldly. "And if you think you can trick _ me _ into voluntarily giving your minions a recharge, well then you can just think again. I'd die first."

"We have no need of regeneration energy at present," Davros grinned. "What we are in need of, however, is a female Time Lord." Davros circled closer, openly staring at her now. Not sizing her up so much as leering. It made her skin crawl.

"Well then, perhaps it's time we open negotiations," Missy interrupted abruptly. Davros jerked, his eye meeting hers for the first time:

"Oh, this is not a negotiation," Davros chuckled quietly. He lifted one of his clawed hands to caress her jaw, "but I like you: yes, you will do nicely."

Davros cycled away again, turning his back on her as he set her treasures aside, into the same box that had once held the Doctor's confession dial and sonic sunglasses. "The Hybrid," Davros stated with quiet finality. "I assume you've heard of it."

"Might have done, possibly," Missy returned smoothly, "but that's neither here nor there," she deflected next.

"Oh? How so?"

"Well because it has nothing to do with me, of course!" she retorted. "I'm a Time Lady, not an animal. The High Council is terrified of the very idea, and not even _ I _ am insane enough to wish to bring about Gallifrey's final day. Chaos I may be, but it is entirely outside my skill set and modus operandi." She tossed her head, sitting up a little straighter. She wasn't the Rani, she had standards. "So if you think I am about to help you bring about the coming of the Hybrid…"

"Oh, I don't think," Davros cut in, "I _ know_. It is, after all, entirely within _ my _ skill set. Prepare her."

Missy became aware of the needle only as it was piercing her neck. There was no time to finish picking the locks of her cuffs or escape her chains. There was no time to fight or run. All there suddenly was...was not blindness, exactly, or even deafness. But reality slid away from her. Trying to see made her dizzy, trying to hear made her head pound. It didn't take her long to succumb.

To darkness, heavy and smothering. All sensations muted and removed from her control. She lost all track of time. She started to wake sometime later, eyes flashing open only to be blinded by the surgery lights overhead. She was in an operating theater. Restrained. Utterly naked. Davros' hands were submerged deep inside her abdomen, manipulating... twisting… cutting. Missy screamed at the cold bite of metal, almost relieved when she was sent back under again.

More darkness. An endless stream of chaotic dreams. The Doctor running with her, hand in hand. Flashes of the Time War, old memories long suppressed. Smoke and blood and death everywhere. Fear.

When at last she woke again, she had no idea how much time had passed. She felt weak and disoriented still. Sluggish. Sore. Cold. And yet uncomfortably warm at the same time in a way that made her skin itch.

None of these were feelings that she was familiar with. She wasn't human after all.

When she lifted her head, the room spun ominously. Quite a trick when it was too dark for her to see properly, but just so. She gradually did a self-inventory: all of her limbs were functional, though sluggish. All of her organs were present. She had some sort of implant nestled in her stomach, at her waist, with a small scar to match. Right where a human bellybutton would be. 

She could remember being fascinated by the Doctor's bellybutton as a child. Their other classmates teased him for having one when they caught sight of it, and he kept it well hidden for the most part, but she had been persistent. He'd eventually not only shown her...but let her touch it. They'd played doctor. Compared body parts. It was the only piece of anatomy that differentiated him from the rest of his peers, his people. The only outward indicator that he was not entirely Gallifreyan. And now she had a scar to match.

She sat up slowly, surprised to find herself in a lab, a silent alarm going off on a nearby monitor, her vitals clearly displayed on computer screens scattered around the room. She had been arranged on an examination table in a semi-reclined position, hooked up to an IV and had a feeding tube inserted through her nose, down her throat. There were stirrups at her knees.

She closed her legs and pulled her knees to her chest, curled her arms around herself. Her breasts felt strange. Slightly heavy, uncomfortably tender. Her body felt sticky against the table...warm and damp between her thighs. In short, her body felt alien. Weak and itchy and uncomfortable.

She didn't like this. She was used to being able to trust her body, to rely on it. But she didn't know how much time had passed. She didn't know where she was. And when she tried to slide off the table instead of standing strong on her feet she found herself sinking to the floor. She tried to push herself back upright but was already out of energy. This wasn't right, her muscles should be impervious to atrophy no matter how long they had experimented on her, how long had she been unconscious?

A door slid open with a discongruously comforting hiss, then slid shut again a few moments later. Davros rolled around the table to look down at her where she lay, still sprawled on the floor. A slow chuckle started to bubble up from his throat. Her skin crawled as she tried once more to lift herself off the floor...

"Still full of spunk I see," he noted. "I wonder…"

"When the Doctor finds out what you've done," she murmured, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"The Doctor could care less about you," Davros retorted, systematically unbuckling his jacket, then shrugging it off and laying it across the abandoned observation table. "He has no idea where you are, nor does he have the inclination to come back. He is currently content in the arms of another woman…"

"Liar," Missy claimed, trying to inch farther away from him on trembling hands and numb arse. As if the Doctor was interested in such things.

"Tell me, does the name River Song mean anything to you?" he inquired politely. His chair opened, much as the one she had hidden Clara in had, and Davros suddenly slithered out of its confines, his lower half a huge mass of writhing tentacles. Missy scrambled backwards anew, but he simply descended upon her, his superior mass driving her down into the floor beneath himself, his limbs sinuously arranging themselves around her own, wrapping themselves around her torso, her legs, lifting and cradling her. She was essentially restrained again, albeit in a strangely tender yet strong embrace.

Something warm and slick was prodding between her legs almost immediately. Warmer than the room's ambient temperature or the floor he was pressing her down onto at any rate. Clumsily brushing against the tender flesh at the juncture of her thighs, freely exploring that which had never been touched by anyone save herself since this body’s formation...and that only to clean herself. Time Lords were above such things, after all. Another taboo that even she had never defied.

She squirmed and tugged against his hold, bucking beneath him, twisting and yanking at the tentacles that encompassed her. They all held, nay, more of them asserted themselves to subdue her even further. She had an extremely limited range of motion and he weighed more than any man of his size had any business weighing. He didn't so much as shift a millimeter away from her as she gave everything she had to try to throw him off herself, bucking and shifting beneath him.

One of Davros' hands ever so tenderly traced her ear, her jaw, then settled over her throat with bruising strength. His weight bore down on her so heavily that she could barely move, let alone breathe. Despite a significant rush of adrenaline, her body had already expended all the energy that it had to give. She sagged into his hold, trying to conserve what little strength she had left.

"He...will...kill…" she ground out before falling back on her respiratory bypass.

"Who will?" Davros asked as if they were chatting about the weather or something equally inane. "The Doctor? I think not. It was he who abandoned you, after all. Practically threatened to kill you himself. For what you did to his precious Clara Oswald. And I thought I was cruel and manipulative; you put me to shame, dear lady."

"Didn't...hurt...." the world was going fuzzy again. She couldn't breathe. Her limbs were going entirely slack against her will. 

She hadn't harmed a hair on Clara Oswald's head. She'd hung her upside down and pushed her down a hole and rang a doorbell but...she'd shielded the girl with her own body from an explosion. She'd healed her slightest injury with her own body's regenerative energy. She'd found a tank to hide her in, to disguise her with. She'd even taught the girl a few things. Ensured her survival. Treated her as an equal almost.

Her limbs were tingling now, refusing to respond, crumpling. As she succumbed, his grip loosened. Air flooded her lungs. She coughed roughly...as vigorously as she could with his full weight still bearing down on her.

"This won't hurt at all," he rasped into her ear. "I promise."

His offending appendage had remained pressed to the juncture between her thighs all this while, patient and immovable. Bucking against it had made her...the soft flesh normally shielded by her mons and labia was now tingling. Warming. And despite her best intentions yearning. Like an itch that demanded to be scratched. 

The offending appendage itself was firm yet flexible, pulsed against her apex as it undulated against her anew, spreading some sort of tacky fluid against her tender flesh. A distinct protrusion settled against her clitoris, quivered, and began to...pulse? Vibrate? Suck. _ Oh _…

The tingling in her body heightened, particularly in her feet and hands. Her... her sex? throbbed in satisfaction, yearning. Her vagina pulsed with arousal, her own fluids seeping forth to combine with his. Within mere moments she was floating. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She felt...drugged. Tripping. High. Her back arched reflexively, and yet more tentacles wrapped around her body. New protrusions honed in on her nipples and sent even more ripples of pleasure pulsing through her body. She threw her head back as ecstasy exploded across her flesh in a full body orgasm, a scream caught in her throat... 

She had heard it described as an out of body experience. Only it was anything but. She was hyperaware of every shuddering pulse, heartsbeat, and breath. More slick arousal gushing forth against her will. All of it was completely outside her usual rigid control. She was at the mercy of Davros' ministrations, all but paralyzed, unwillingly enraptured in ecstasy. She coughed hard again, trying to catch her breath as her orgasm waned.

Davros slipped yet another appendage inside her vagina now. Her traitorous body was… not objecting. It fluttered around said appendage in misguided delight as he pressed deeper, filling her completely, making her aware of previously ignored spaces, sensations, needs... A groan caught in Davros' throat, and his...sexual organ...pulsed. Her vagina was intrusively flooded with his hot spend.

She wanted to slap him. Scream. Scratch. Stab. Her body...wasn't responding properly. Oh the pleasure, it was continuing to build and build. It _ yearned _ and welcomed even as it repulsed and offended her. But her arms and legs wouldn't move. Her voice had fled. And it was all she could do to breathe.

While Davros' torso remained absolutely still, his tentacles kept undulating. Shuddering. Repositioning. His cock...it wasn't a cock but she didn't have any other terminology coming to mind at present...was lengthening. Or extending? Pressing even deeper, deeper within her than she had ever been touched before. Pressing painlessly and insistently. It honed in on her cervix, forcing its way deeper still.

It shouldn't be possible for a tentacle to painlessly force its way through a cervix. It should be excruciatingly painful and cause a woman's body to cramp, to bleed, to object. But instead she could feel every press and slide with absolute clarity while simultaneously feeling no pain whatsoever. It was disconcerting and heartbreaking. She _ wanted _ to feel pain. She didn't want to enjoy this. Her body was betraying her. She shouldn't feel arousal or pleasure from this travesty. She shouldn't be orgasming again and again and again as this madman ejaculated repeatedly, never shifting, never lifting himself to so much as keep his weight off of her. She was helpless. At his mercy. He had all of the power. And she let him take it.

A single tear ran down her cheek and fell into her ear.

  
  
  


The days after her rape ran together much as the previous ones had. Her body ached in new ways. She was drugged and walked and prodded most days. Her menses came like clockwork and she wept in relief. It became the most reliable way she had to mark the time. A month after her period had begun, they would take her to the medlab and Davros would repeat his efforts to impregnate her. Eleven or twelve days later her period would come. Davros grew angrier each time.

After a few months' failures, Davros stopped raping her and a line or Daleks climbed up out of their tanks and lay across her torso long enough to stick their slight hectocotylus up her vagina and make their contribution. It wasn't painful... but it wasn't particularly pleasurable, either. As with Davros, something about their excretions paralyzed her entirely. She couldn't fight back or make a sound after the first two or three minutes. And after a while she stopped trying entirely. There was no point, it only amused Davros more.

After...she thought it had been a year. Davros switched gears again. There were more injections, more manipulations, and she was taken to a larger surgical theater and for the first time in ages physically restrained with straps. Tied down to an operating table without the slightest bit of consideration. Davros didn't even look at her as he fastened the straps, but he watched intently from an elevated observation deck as a humanoid male was dragged into the room and made to climb up onto the table with her at blaster point as multiple Daleks attended.

The man stank of sweat and fear. He clambered onto the table and hovered above her, hands gentle as they readjusted her limbs to accommodate his own. And then he fumblingly started to stroke her clitoris, watching her intently for any sort of positive response.

"Please don't," she whimpered. His fingers were rough, as if he had been forced to do physical labor. It was a stark contrast to how soft Davros' hands were. She was so sensitive down there after a year's worth of manipulations that this new, tentacle-less, dry manipulation actually hurt.

"Get on with it!" Davros barked out harshly, voice amplified through a microphone. The man held his half-hard erection, prodding somewhat frantically at her sex, yet failing to couple them. His heart clearly wasn't into it. "Must I make yet another example?" Davros interrupted again.

"No!" he exclaimed, turning to face the scientist, one hand held high in surrender. "I just need a minute. I'll do it, I swear I will. Just don't hurt my family." He inhaled shakily, turning back to the task at hand, and his eyes met Missy's. "I'm sorry," he mouthed. 

He closed his eyes tightly and stroked his cock. Tenderly at first, but once it responded more encouragingly, more firmly and urgently. He started to moan, and his movements sped up, until he was...jerking off. Desperately. His hips hovered over her forcibly spread legs, cock jutting above her apex, as he wanked off like there was no one watching. 

His dark eyes flashed open and he impaled her with one smooth motion. It burned terribly. He was built differently than Davros or the Daleks, his shaft shorter and thicker. His hips thrust forcefully once, twice, three times. And then his cock was swelling inside her even larger than before, locking his phallus inside her protesting channel. Missy’s pelvic floor instinctively clamped down hard, pulsing angrily and causing his cock to spasm in a forced ecstasy. The stranger's entire frame went rigid just before he fell forward, catching himself just short of collapsing on top of her. He groaned as he ejaculated in response to the stimulation her body had provided him with. 

It seemed to go on a ridiculously long time. Just when she thought it was over, his hips would jerk haphazardly again, and more spend would be released. Each time his weight shifted his cock would push or pull against the grip of her own angry vagina, causing her pelvic muscles to contract anew, to respond with more pain braided with pleasure, unable or unwilling to let him go. It was agony. With each pulse, she would whimper and jerk beneath him, trying her hardest to lie still. 

After about ten minutes it seemed to end, at least...he wasn't releasing any more. He was still stuck inside her, still hard and heavy. And their captors were still watching every breath and movement.

"Again," Davros hissed.

The man groaned, but pressed his pelvis more firmly against Missy's and started to hump her. Much as Davros often had, he manhandled her limbs, readjusting her body to cradle him between her thighs, then undulating against her core more stridently. Sweat beaded on his brow, his face twisted with an expression that could have been pain or pleasure.

This new position provided pressure and friction against her clit, at least. After months of public sex, the thing that she found most humiliating was not that others were watching...it was that she had no control over her body's reactions. This interaction was different. She wasn't paralyzed. She was still restrained, of course, but she could participate more than usual. She started to rock with him, partially in reflex, partially in an attempt to just get it over with as quickly as possible, but she went with it. Anything to assert control over herself again was welcome.

His eyes were clenched shut again. He was whispering under his breath. A name. His love and devotion. How everything would be okay. And she knew they were all lies. Not meant for her. Promises for his lover or wife no doubt. He was fucking Missy but envisioning _ her_. And it moved her, to see someone's love drive them to violence, even if it was violence towards herself. It was beautiful, and arousing, and it didn't take long for the pain to translate to pleasure and actually allow her to fall over the edge with this strange man.

Her orgasm triggered his own cycle anew. He did collapse against her entirely this time, his cock twitching with each weak spurt of his spend, and her body took it all. 

"Good," Davros pronounced before rotating his chair and leaving the theater. The Daleks gradually started leaving as her partner sunk deeper and deeper into her, having apparently expended all of his energy.

"Are you sleeping?" she asked quietly after most of the crowd had dispersed. He had sagged fully across her body, face tucked alarmingly closed to her own, his dark hair tickling her nose.

"Trying very hard not to," he mumbled. "Thank you. Thank you for saving my family."

"Not like I had any choice in it," she deflected casually, realizing that she hadn’t strung as many words together over the course of the past year. "You're not Dalek though." She sighed, reveling in having someone to talk to. "That's something."

"Of course I'm not a Dalek!" he exclaimed quietly, lifting his head to look her in the eyes again. "I'm a Kaled of course." He studied her for a long moment, keeping his eyes trained on her face. "You have the hair of a Kaled, just like my wife, but the eyes of a Thal. It's most disconcerting."

"I tend to have that effect on people," she agreed. "But I'm not a Kaled or a Thal: I'm a Time Lady."

"Time....Lady?" he asked warily. "You don't mean…" his eyes widened. "Do you know that Doctor?!?"

"Of course I know the Doctor. I grew up with him," she bragged. Anything to feel herself again, if only for a moment. "That's why Davros is so eager to use me," she confessed, "to hurt him."

"But the Doctor is just a story, certainly!"

"Just because he's a story doesn't mean he isn't real," she rolled her eyes. "Stick around, and just maybe he'll rescue you, too."

“The Doctor will not rescue _ you_,” a nearby Dalek interjected coldly. 

“The Doctor fled in his Tardis,” another chimed in.

"We are beyond the Doctor's reach," the first intoned.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Missy harumphed.

“The Doctor is on Darillium!” came next, the words of her two mockers piling on top of one another. 

“The Doctor has chosen to cohabitate with the enemy known as Professor River Song.”

“There is no escape!”

“Davros will succeed in bringing about the Doctor’s greatest fear!”

“Davros will create the Hybrid!”

“Enough!” Missy hissed. “I don't need to hear your delusions yet again, let us rest in peace."

  
  
  


The Doctor didn't rescue her. And she didn't see the Kaled again. Nor did her menses return. Instead, her nipples hurt like the dickens and her head started throbbing so badly that if they moved her at all she would throw up anything in her stomach. She didn't need Davros' gleeful voice to confirm what she already knew. She was pregnant.

They kept her in the lab full time once it was confirmed. She was on IVs to keep her hydrated, and they lowered the dose of whatever drug kept her dizzy and confused, but she felt like she was going to die. She couldn't keep any food down. She couldn't function. She couldn't make it to a toilet before losing control of her bodily functions. It was agony. Torture. Even less control than she had previously been allowed to have. And it was only getting worse.

After two weeks she had lost over a stone but the nausea finally ended. Now she was constantly starving, craving foods that Daleks had never even heard of. She was allowed to stop using the feeding tube but that was hardly a blessing. Daleks had zero sense of cuisine. She would hold her nose and force the food down anyway, desperate for any sustenance she could get. She still felt like crap, her hips felt like they were going to rip themselves out of her pelvis, but at least she was keeping the food down.

A month into her pregnancy, her Dalek guards and caretakers began acting strangely. They would forget their tasks, open and abandon their transport, and canoodle with her for as long as they could get away with before a stronger Dalek would come along and force them to vacate. 

Being cuddled by a Dalek was slightly soothing. Being kissed was absolutely disgusting. They smelled terrible. The left goo everywhere, she couldn't get it off her skin. And if the canoodling wasn't interrupted it would culminate with them enthusiastically breaking off their hectocotylus inside her cunt before crawling off in the corner to die, sometimes without even removing the phallus of their predecessor. It didn't hurt at least.

Things had gotten so bizarre that she wasn't sure if she had a firm grip on reality anymore or was just hallucinating full time. She wasn't sure it mattered anymore. She ate and slept as much as she could and let the Daleks do whatever they wanted. It had the benefit of thinning their ranks and maybe, just maybe, there would be an opening soon. They had no wish to hurt her at least, not with her carrying the next generation of Dalek supremacy. And so Missy bided her time while trying to ignore one very important truth: she was nearly out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long to post. My tablet ate my first draft only to restore it weeks later. Real life has been nuts. I wanted this to be perfect. It isn't, but it is what it is.


End file.
